the rest of the story
by hiyoris-scarf
Summary: four entries for Yatori Week 2016
1. in words of rose and rust

**prompt:** firsts

 **summary:** the first time she says it back.

* * *

"Oh, Hiyori, I love you!"

It doesn't take much to elicit the phrase from him. This time, it's for bringing him one of the extra warm cheesy buns on her way to visit. The favor didn't really take a lot of effort—just a quick stop, five minutes, and a few coins. But he would probably tell her he loved her if she bought him a flyswatter. He would probably tell her he loved her if she attacked him with it.

As he digs into the good-smelling bakery bag, Hiyori mutters something under her breath. He stops devouring for a second, looking up in curiosity.

"Did you say something?"

She flushes.

"I said you need to not eat so quickly. You'll make yourself sick."

"I can't get sick. And I know you didn't say that, because you look like you're lying."

Hiyori starts walking away from him.

"You're hearing things, Yato."

With inhuman speed he seems to materialize right in front of her, setting his hands heavily on her shoulders. Hiyori sometimes wishes he hadn't figured out how to fluster her quite so easily, or that he hadn't discovered the ways he can touch her to cause her breathing to stagger, because he avails himself of these advantages every opportunity he can. This time is no different.

Without meeting his eyes, Hiyori knows his gaze is burning through her. Her ears and cheeks become as hot as one of those extra warm cheesy buns.

"Hiyori. What did you say?"

His voice is low; it makes her shivery. It makes her honest. She gulps. With her voice barely above a whisper, she says:

"I love you…too."

Yato doesn't say anything, and she doesn't dare to look at him—not just yet. Hiyori feels blood flooding her face; if only he would say something. Maybe _she_ should say something. But instead, the long quietness after those small, incriminating words stretches like an unbroken horizon.

Finally, one of his hands comes off her shoulder, and she feels his hot fingers close around her right hand. He lifts it up toward his face, and with the hurricane of her heartbeat pounding inside her ribs, she feels him press his lips to her curved knuckles. Then, turning it over, he kisses her palm. The pressure of his lips on her hand leaves an invisible mark, like the skimming wings of a butterfly.

"Yato—?"

He doesn't answer, but keeps her hand close to his face. She feels his breath on her fingers. And something hot, wet, splashes onto her fingernails. Realizing it's a tear, Hiyori's breath catches, and she has a moment of devastating clarity.

Who has told him these words before? Nora? _She's_ probably said them, and meant them well enough. But she's also a master of manipulation—withholding the sentiment constantly, dangling it just enough out of reach to bring Yato back into the snare of his old life. What about his father? Hiyori doesn't think _he's_ been too free with affection. Otherwise, Yato would not have craved it so violently, so desperately. And his other friends…she knows he deeply trusts Kofuku and Daikoku, but he's never set both of his feet over that line of acquaintanceship. Not like he has with her.

But Hiyori didn't think about any of that when she said it. She didn't think that, maybe, it's the first time he's heard it— _really_ heard it—and after thousands of years of waiting…

Another scalding drop lands. Then one more.

Then he looks at her, and smiles, and if Hiyori had any doubts about saying it before, they're gone now.

She takes a deep breath and starts to say something—probably something silly—but then he drags her into his chest and holds her there, arms locked so closely around her that she almost passes out. His breath tickles her ear.

"Mean it?"

The question is so vulnerable and so young, she could nearly weep. Her face is a little smashed against his shoulder, but she manages to bob it up and down. After a few more seconds, she wheezes through her compressed lungs:

"Yato—air—"

He immediately takes a step back to give her room to inhale, but keeps her held in a half-embrace. When she meets his eyes, they're the clear, winter-blue they've always been. Except for the wetness on her hand, it's hard to imagine he's shed a tear. He says playfully:

"Well, of course you love me. I'm super."

Hiyori snorts, and leans away far enough to tweak his (frustratingly perfect) nose with her right hand.

"Don't get carried away. Just because I love you doesn't mean you get to be cocky."

Her careful emphasis on those three words is not lost on him, just like the unwrinkling of the skin between his eyebrows, and the subtle softening of his shoulders—like the lifting of an invisible weight—is not lost on her.

And then, finally, he looks at her mouth and kisses her there instead. Which, if she's being honest, is the reaction she hoped for ever since she bought that second extra warm cheesy bun. He smells like everything good: like laundry, and fresh bread, and sunrise. And himself.

Because she thinks he wants to hear it one more time—or maybe she just wants to say it one more time—she fits it into the half-seconds when he's not kissing her.

"I love you too."


	2. and fate, that ancient tune

**prompt:** fates intertwine

 **summary:** he thinks whoever is in charge of fate has it out for him, specifically.

* * *

 **part 1**

He doesn't notice it for a while. He's not used to counting years, but one day he notices the new, sharp tug anchoring him to the Near Shore. He tells himself it's nothing. There are a thousand reasons for him to be concerned with humanity, and all of them have to do with the clink of yen in his palm.

The fate of a god is not a complicated affair—nothing like the knots mortals tend to entangle themselves in. The fates of the gods soar far above that living, pulsing web, strung thin and silvery in the air like a telephone wire. Though Yato's has dipped into the world more than most, he comes out unscathed, unstrung. The day that suddenly changes, he tries not to think much of it.

 _This is not possible, so it is not happening._

Even when he feels the pull of an invisible string inside his chest, he mutters, "impossible," to himself. It's an impossibility that he could be tethered to something _down there_ —unknown in the misty human world. Even as whatever _it_ is drags him nearer and nearer, he pushes the thread aside. He doesn't cut it asunder, because to do that would be to acknowledge its existence. An existence that, Yato has said himself, is quite impossible.

* * *

It's not happening because it's not possible. It's not possible, so it's not happening. So why did he just say those words, those ringing, truthful words, to an ordinary schoolgirl?

 _It's a figure of speech,_ he thinks. _It's just what I say. It's a tagline. My brand identity. Yato, the delivery god, who can charm the yen right out of your pockets. The first rule of good marketing, even as a god: always make it personal._

"May our fates forever intertwine," he had said to the girl facing him, spinning her five-yen coin between two of his fingers.

He tells himself, with limited success, that those words are no more significant than the slogans and bylines that decorate the billboards of the city.

* * *

"This is really starting to get old," he grumbles, pulling his cell phone from the pocket of his tracksuit. Iki, Iki, Iki, Iki. The name echoes in his ears like a distant bird call. He presses *answer*.

"Stop calling. I'm off duty."

*We both know that's not true. Will you _please_ get to my job now?*

"Yeah, I'm definitely making it a priority. Maybe if you left my phone alone, I'd actually have time to complete it."

*Oh really? Are you working on it right now?*

Yato stretches his back against the hard surface of the shrine bench. Napping totally counts. He's replenishing his energy.

"Top of my list!"

He hears her sigh. This girl will _not_ be thrown off, and Yato's almost forgotten what it feels like to be held accountable. It looks like there's someone who won't let him forget his responsibilities anymore. The thread pulling taut in his chest squeezes suddenly around his—strangely uneven—heartbeat. The girl on the other end of the phone line says:

*If you don't have it done in the next few days, I'll track you down and _make_ you finish it.*

 _That might not be half bad_ , Yato catches himself thinking. So he hangs up on her.

The click as the call disconnects seems to mock him.

"Shut up," he says to no one.

* * *

He can't ignore it anymore. No one can ignore it anymore. Tenjin, curse him and his sharp tongue and his shrewd eyes, shoots him down from the perch of ignorance he was happily balancing in.

"You can't expect her to be happy in an entanglement with you, Yato. She's a girl—let her live."

That's what Yato wants. To let her live, and let her be happy. The strong, deeply knotted thread anchoring him to her causes an almost physical ache, but it's an ache he doesn't think he can survive without.

"So, will you do it?" Tenjin asks.

Yato closes his eyes and tries to picture it: Sekki's blade, diving like a serpent across the gap between himself and Hiyori, but the moment before it connects, the image in his mind pops in a distortion of color. He can't even see himself do it in his imagination, so what makes him think he'll be able to do it in reality?

Tenjin seems to understand, and heaves a great sigh.

"You're going to make life ten thousand times more difficult for her."

Yato feels like he's being ripped in half; one side of him listens attentively to Tenjin, recognizing the pragmatic wisdom there. The other side of him—the side he _actually_ listens to—remains stumped by Hiyori's oxlike stubbornness, her human naïvete, her innocent trust in him. He kneads his temples.

"Well if it makes any difference, she's making life a pain for me too."

* * *

This is what happens when he's stupid enough to believe that good things can happen to him. Things like _this_ happen instead. Whatever connection their fates might have had at one point is snapped in two, drowned under the weight of water and of earth. And in his arms, there's nothing but her fragile body.

"Hiyori!"

 _Please._

In his defense, it had been so nice to think that maybe his life could encounter someone else's, even for a few years. It had been nice to think that "may our fates intertwine" weren't just words built around an impossible promise. It had been nicer than he could ever have believed to look into someone's face and see right into her good, _good_ soul. It had been nice for him. But look what it's done to her.

"Hiyori."

He cradles her head, touching her breakable, human self like it still holds something, like her eyes will open and she will smile at him and then probably follow it up with a Jungle Savate for how compromising his position over her is. Her name is still part of her, so he says it again, again, again.

Until her eyes do open, and she takes a long breath, like she's almost forgotten how to fill her lungs—like she's breathing in her favorite scent. When she speaks, he thinks he's woken up in a bright dream.

"Yato."

He's rapidly forgetting the meaning of the word, "impossible."

 **part 2**

 _The lady of Yomi has many skills, but one in particular she can use to in lure in her prey—prey such as this intriguing, sharp-featured boy god, who still thinks he's avoiding her spider's trap._

 _Izanami can read the threads._

 _This time she follows the cord, thicker than hair, and more gossamer than a spider's thread, straight from where it twines around Yato to its connection with the human girl, who stands so far above them, wondering. Hiyori Iki._

 _She knows whose face to wear._

* * *

Dammit, Hiyori just keeps rescuing him. At this point, Yato knows the impossibility of _them_ has somehow forced its way into reality, because there's no way someone who wasn't tethered to him by the crooked fingers of fate would have stuck with him for so long. There's no other way she could have guessed his real name. There's no other way she wouldn't have given up.

Then again, this is Hiyori he's talking about. It's hard to make predictions with her.

This is one of the thoughts occupying him during his time in recovery. This, and the effect his role has had in her life. When she comes to see him, he decides to find out, from her own mouth, whether that effect has been good or bad. He'll take her word for it; trusting her judgment is the least he can do.

"You look…pretty good," she says, after entering the room in Bishamon's house that has been turned into Yato's makeshift hospital wing.

"I think you meant to say, 'as always'," he quips. Whoops. This was supposed to be serious.

Her eyes travel over the bruises and lacerations that have turned his body into a patchwork map of bandages.

"No comment."

 _Ouch._

Hiyori seems to sense there's something more than just physical that's bothering him. It's still a thought he can't phrase correctly; he doesn't know how to ask her without sounding whiny or pitiable. He appreciates that she doesn't ask him about it, but just comes to sit on the side of his bed.

In his silence, she gazes around in awe at the spacious, well-lit room, and Yato suddenly feels a bit jealous. He's jealous of the _house_ , for being prettier and in better shape than he is.

"This place is really nice," she says, and his mood lifts. He can't be negative when she is near him, and happy. He can try, but it's another impossibility he's tired of fighting.

"Yeah. Popularity pays…" he says, rolling his eyes. Then he realizes how bad that sounds, especially since Bishamon is voluntarily letting him stay here to recover.

He promptly backtracks:

" _Not_ that being a popular god is bad! Ha, ha."

Hiyori looks extremely unconvinced, but lets it drop. Instead, she says:

"Well, popular or not, you both seem to attract the same amount of trouble."

He swallows. She's handed him the perfect opportunity.

"Yeah…speaking of that…"

 _I'm sorry you got tied up in all this. I'm sorry to make you worry. I'm sorry that I can't seem to let go of you._

"Sorry. About…those."

He waves vaguely at the faint purple that blooms over parts of her arms and legs. The arrival of Heaven's Punishers had been rough on everyone: humans, gods, and regalia alike. It's not really his apology to claim, but it's something.

She looks down at the fading bruises, as if she had already forgotten about them.

"Oh. Right. These aren't that big a deal."

Then she looks up from herself, and gives him a look that tells him how transparent his dodging is to her.

"That's good," he says, lamely. Then:

"You always get kinda banged up on these adventures of mine. You didn't have to come try to find me, you know."

Her hand, resting on the sheet next to his, jerks like she's been shocked. Yato swears he can hear her teeth click together.

"What do you mean by that?"

He tries not to cringe at the iron in her tone. But he's really stepped in it now, so he might as well see it through.

"You're a human. You don't have to get involved in dangerous stuff like this if you don't want to. I'm just saying…it's not like I'm _asking_ you to—"

"Idiot!"

His jaw flaps open—then he snaps it shut immediately. Hiyori looks madder than he's ever seen her. And he's seen her get pretty damn angry. But this time there are tears swelling at the corners of her eyes, so the effect is even worsened. She's getting all red and splotchy too. He probably shouldn't mention that.

"I said I'd stick with you, didn't I? And besides, it's not like I'm really safe if I stop associating with you. Your enemies will always be my enemies. I thought you _knew_ that, Yato."

Without seeming to realize it, she grabs his hand and presses it between both of hers—hard enough to reawaken the stinging pain of the wounds beneath the bandages. That pain he easily can deal with.

So it looks like he has his answer. Maybe neither of them had much of a say in whether or not their fates were tied together. But at least he tried to give her a choice, and her answer still rings in his ears. Later, when she tells him: "You've always been my god of fortune," the part he doesn't hear her say—the part he fills in for himself—is that she has made him one.

Another impossibility he's figuring out how to overcome is the idea that he can accomplish anything good through his own power. Still, he credits any blessing that falls in his path to the parts of her life that wound themselves miraculously around his. Though unintentionally, she led him to his hafuri. She carried and withstood his blight. She built him his first shrine. She believed in him—believed hard enough for a thousand worshipers—and remembered his name when he did everything he could to disappear from her life. The only time she ever called him "Yaboku"—the name he pushed away, along with the life associated with it—was to, once again, rescue him.

When Yato said their fates would intertwine, he didn't know he would wind up clinging to hers like a lifeline.

Hiyori looks up at him, and raises her eyebrows.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

He remembers, quite suddenly, the thousand reasons for his concern with humanity—and he has to laugh as he confronts yet another impossibility. Every one of them is staring at him out of her eyes.


	3. of gods whose names are dust

**prompt:** kiss

 **summary:** the first memorable ten, and how they taste.

* * *

Their first kiss really surprises both of them when it happens. As far as first kisses go, it's rather on the clumsy side, and tastes like sweat and uncertainty and embarrassment.

But the second one, close on the heels of the first, tastes like the newest raindrops of spring. Or maybe it doesn't, and that's just what Yato thinks when he manages to align his lips properly with hers. It's the taste of something fresh, and sweet, and pure. It lets him know that life, even underneath clouds, isn't all darkness.

He isn't prepared for how immersive, how violently _sensory_ , sharing these touches with a human is like. The total shock of it catches him off guard on their third kiss, which tastes like rice and dumplings, because that's what they've both just finished eating. It's not a bad experience, he thinks, as he presses trembling hands on either side of her waist. It's not bad at all.

Their fourth kiss has a taste that's a little more difficult to pin down, but much later, he finally manages to figure it out: chalk and lavender. Chalk, because there's a small amount of white dust in her hair and on her uniform. She must have been writing something on the board. That pervasive dust leaves little patches of premature age in the dark strands; the dry, mineral scent is unmistakeable. And there's lavender there too because she did some gardening earlier, and her fingers on his cheeks and against his neck are stained with oil from its blooms. The mixture of the two distinct flavors, combined with the kiss itself, leaves him dizzy.

Their fifth kiss tastes like laughter and whispers, because they don't want to awaken suspicion just yet. Yukine is busy cleaning the kitchen, and Kofuku and Daikoku are doing something outside. For Yato and Hiyori, the unnecessary secrecy of their touches triggers a delightful fear, which is yet another element that's totally new to him. Why is the thrill of getting caught so heady? If he doesn't want them to get caught, then why is he letting his fingers tangle up in her hair?

The bubbling taste of Hiyori's laughter becomes a sigh when he moves his lips to the corner of her mouth, her jawline, down to the delicate, birdlike bones of her neck. He looks up smugly when she gasps, and then, seeing that her wide eyes are fixed on a point behind his head, he realizes the sound actually has nothing to do with him.

Whoever has appeared behind Yato utters a choked wheeze, quickly followed by:

"What the—!"

"Yukine?!" Yato yelps, whirling to face him.

As he stands frozen at the hallway's opening, Yukine's eyes dart between Yato and Hiyori. The mixture of outright shock on his face rapidly transitions into a semi-embarrassed smirk—a silent statement of, " _well it's about damn time."_ From a quick glance at her expression, Yato gathers that Hiyori wants nothing more than to evaporate.

"Just…don't be disgusting about it, please?" Yukine says after a few moments of loaded silence. He shuffles backward out of the hallway, his face dark red.

"Can't promise anything, kid!" Yato retorts out of impulse. Then, realizing something:

"Hey, Yukine, don't tell Kofuku or Daikoku anything, okay?"

"We already know, Yato," shouts Daikoku from outside. "It's even more obvious than your sweaty hands."

This proclamation is followed by Kofuku's cackle of glee, and Yukine's very audible snort. Hiyori groans, burying her face in the front of Yato's shirt.

Their sixth kiss is as sweet as chocolate and honey, a short liplock on her way out the door that evening. And then another one. And another. But in his mind, they all count as the same kiss. She laughs while halfheartedly trying to make her exit, and he catches just one more. That one's probably the sweetest. After kiss number six, it gets a little difficult for him to keep count.

There were most likely a few in between, but he thinks it's the seventh kiss that tastes like salt, because she's crying about something. ("Don't worry about it, Yato, it's not important—I'm just being stupid—" "It _is_ important, and you're _not_ stupid. Wait, Hiyori, what are you doi—mmpf—!") The firm, desperate pressure of her body against his makes him think that, maybe, she's crying about _him._ Will kissing her make it worse? It might, but the way she clings to him doesn't leave him much of a choice in the matter.

As long as he can help her somehow, then that's okay. And finally, her salt-bitter, vulnerable kiss becomes something slower, more swelling. Can he kiss her until this strange, awful sadness leaves her alone?

He can try.

Their eighth kiss (or something like that) is a banquet that makes him feel criminal for even tasting it. It's silk, and wine, and rosewater, and something better than all of them together. Can a god be sent to hell?— _Yes,_ he thinks _. I absolutely can._ Or maybe he's already there, because this can't be real life _._

Sensing his hesitation, Hiyori pulls back and looks at him searchingly. Now he _knows_ he's in hell, because there's no way that secret, perfect light in her eyes is for him. There's no way that can be true. She's balanced over him, one hand next to his ear, the other placed feather-light on his stomach, quivering in time with his own uneven breath. Inhale-exhale. Before he can speak, her mouth is on his again, and he tastes sharp, wet copper from earlier, when she bit her own lip. At least he knows she's in hell too.

Inhale- _breathe-_ exhale- _out._ Her hand moves down from his abdominal muscles, farther. Inhale-exhale- _breathe-breathe…holy sh—_

Clean skin and moonlight. That's how he remembers their ninth kiss tasting. He's taken to spending the night in her room with her, but they don't end up doing anything much. Certainly nothing Yukine would disapprove of—at least, most of the time. But Yato really does it so he can just exist happily in her company for a little while. In between the chaotic events that come along with the territory of just being who and what he is, Yato knows that these serene moments probably won't last. And he can't think of a better use for them than this.

They sit together on Hiyori's bed, and the quiet is so peaceful he can't fully believe the rest of the world exists. She leans heavily against his shoulder, already half-asleep.

"You smell like soap," he says, stupidly. His voice breaks the deep quiet, in which there had been nothing but night wind and crickets. It had been so quiet, he could hear her pulse.

Hiyori tries to rouse herself at his words. Shifting herself off his shoulder, she gazes up at him.

"Huh?" she says, sounding a little punchy from sleep. Maybe she doesn't realize she's staring at his mouth.

"Nothing. Go to sleep."

"M…kay."

Her eyelids, drifting partway shut halfway through the word, float featherlike against the curve of her cheek. She starts to slump toward him again, and Yato grabs her before her face smacks into his shoulder. He holds her there for a moment, motionless, and then presses his lips gently to hers without quite thinking about it. Or maybe he does think about it, and decides to do it anyway.

Hiyori, still suspended between waking and sleeping, hums softly against his mouth, and seems to relax even more. She does taste like soap, he discovers, but not bitter—just clean. After he pulls away, slowly, she resettles herself against his shoulder, one arm slung freely over his body. Maybe, just maybe, he can get away with never moving again.

He almost doesn't hear it when she mutters:

"You smell nice, too."

It's on their tenth kiss—or, perhaps, their hundredth—that he tastes the syllables of his own name whispered in her voice. It's a word he thought should taste like dust, or steel, or bone, but from her mouth it tastes like none of those. He likes how his name sounds when it comes from her, and how her reverent tone shapes a newfound softness into it. It's almost an invocation—almost a prayer. She says it again:

"Yato."

Yes. Their tenth kiss tastes like a prayer.


	4. and girls who love the moon

**prompt:** tsukuyomi

 **summary:** sometimes she stands outside at midnight.

* * *

She learns it the hard way: that girls who love the moon will never be happy with their feet on the earth.

"What is she doing out there?" Mrs. Iki asks her husband. Their seven-year-old daughter lies on her back in the yard, her face cast in pearl and shadow. It's hard to tell at first, but a close look reveals that her lips are moving rapidly. She's talking.

"She's trying to catch a cold, is what she's doing," her father says in reply, and goes outside to call Hiyori into the house.

When she comes in, Mrs. Iki brushes the grass off her daughter's clothes, and sets aside the dew-damp dress for laundry day. As she gets Hiyori ready for bed, she has to ask:

"What were you talking to yourself about out there?"

Hiyori turns around, her eyes wide and animated. At this age, she's put away most of her imaginary friends. At least, that's what Mrs. Iki had thought.

"I wasn't talking to myself! I was talking to the moon."

Her mother laughs, and starts buttoning her into her nightdress.

"You mean—the man in the moon?"

Hiyori's small forehead crinkles in confusion.

"What? There's no man there. I was just talking to the moon. He likes to hear about my day."

Mrs. Iki, surprised into silence, finishes the last button. Then she runs her fingers through Hiyori's hair, noticing that it's still damp from the grass.

"Of course he does, little one."

* * *

Some years later, Hiyori stands outside at midnight. She wonders why the moon seems so close. She has never thought of it as it really is: a cold, heavy globe swinging across the sky, tethered at the end of earth's intractable gravity. She has never thought of it as a distant disc of light, pure and unreachable as a diamond in the ocean. She has always given it a name, and if she reaches up with enough effort, maybe she can touch it. She thinks it would feel as smooth and as warm as a coin pressed into the palm of her hand.

"Girls who love the sun burn their faces and get wrinkles around their eyes," her father has told her. "But girls who love the moon stay soft and pale and sweet."

* * *

One night, before Hiyori ever leaps in front of a bus, she does something that she has not done for a long time. She leaves her room, after her parents have gone to bed, and walks quietly out to the front of the house. She passes the windows that reflect fragments of her own face as she walks by them. A white curtain floats in the breeze, fluttering toward her ankles. She unlocks the front door, walks out to the yard, and the dew-soaked grass stays slightly flattened where she steps.

It's not a cold night, but it's not a particularly warm one either. She shivers, but not because of that.

Girls who love the moon always end up reaching for a light that seems much closer than it actually is—a light that is forever beyond their fingertips.

She doesn't lie down on the lawn like she used to, and she doesn't talk to the moon out loud like she used to. It's funny—she was once so convinced that there was _something_ there. That, maybe, the moon had its own face and its own name. Her current uncertainty should be a small disappointment to her, but instead Hiyori feels like she's lost a friend.

Whatever aspects she had bestowed on the moon before, it is nothing but an empty disc now. And she doesn't feel soft, or pale, or sweet, like her father has told her. She feels like a sad wolf, crying at nothing.

* * *

Several weeks after Hiyori comes home from the hospital, she catches herself staring out the window at the sunset, wondering when the light will turn blue. It's something she hasn't done in a while—not since the moon lost interest in her. Before she can stop herself, she walks over to the window and finds its pale, featureless face, soaring high and distant over the clouds.

"Stop listening," she says to it.

Then, she shuts the curtains, shaking her head at herself.

The next morning, Hiyori's father gives her a close look over their breakfast.

"I think I know why you've been falling asleep so often lately, Hiyori. Have you been going outside to talk to yourself at night?"

She looks up, setting her cell phone down on the table in surprise.

"I haven't done that in years, papa." _Well,_ she thinks, _not outside, at least._

He chuckles, returning his attention to his plate.

"It was just a thought. You were a strange little girl back then…but there was something in your face that I haven't seen since. You really did love the moon."

She looks back at her phone, which lights up with Yato's name across the front—for probably the thirtieth time this morning. He can really make himself an annoyance sometimes. Even as she huffs a sigh, the corners of her lips curve up. Why she smiles, she doesn't dare ask herself.

* * *

When Yato goes missing after she gives him his first shrine, Hiyori realizes that the nights seem suddenly darker. As she walks up to the door of her house, wondering if he's doing all right (wondering, mostly, if he's at all worried about her forgetting him), she gazes up at the moon's pale, dim eye. Then, she wonders if she just heard her name.

Deciding that she didn't—that it was just the wind—she opens the door.

 _Hiyori_.

 _The wind,_ she thinks again. But girls who love the moon cannot ignore its call, no more than the tides can.

* * *

"Are you sure we never met before the day I pushed you away from the bus?" she asks Yato out of nowhere, and then blushes powerfully.

To her surprise, he doesn't answer at once.

"I used to be sure of it…but I'm not, actually."

Even though it's mid-day, and the shadows cast by both their bodies are dwarfed by the sun's high angle, she suddenly feels a strange, transcendent familiarity. It's something she hasn't felt this strongly since she was seven years old, and had a habit of lying outside in the darkness.

Hiyori looks over at him, and at his right hand, which she knows has a tendency to be sweaty. It's a larger hand than hers, and she thinks it might be nice to trace her fingers over the bones in his wrist, and that bump right above the knuckle of his middle finger. Her cheeks burn with blood, and she looks away.

"Why do you ask?" he says, as they keep walking.

She finds herself unable to look directly at his face. Especially not into his eyes, which have a disconcerting tendency to look impossibly ancient, compared to the rest of him. So she fixes her gaze on her moving feet instead.

"No reason, really."

From the corner of her eye, while she's most assuredly _not_ looking at him, she sees the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Yeah, it would be pretty far-fetched to think he believes her.

* * *

Another private walk, months later, this one in the late evening. The dynamic between them is very different now; it's more open, and yet, at the same time, both of them are more shy and quiet with each other than they've ever been before.

He finally overcomes his uncharacteristic bashfulness.

"Hey."

Hiyori clears her throat.

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking about what you asked a while ago—if we had ever met before that bus incident."

She gives a short, embarrassed chuckle, and says:

"It was kind of a dumb question. I'm surprised you haven't forgotten it."

Suddenly he stops walking, and she halts with him. As though by accident, his hand brushes against hers.

"Of course I haven't forgotten. I've been thinking about it a lot, actually, and it's frustrating because I feel like the answer should be easy."

Hiyori stares at him. He's taken her silly question so much to heart that she feels bad for asking it in the first place. It isn't important—certainly not right now.

"I'm sure it'll come to you," she says, mostly for his benefit, and she allows her fingers to stay touching his. Not holding hands. Not quite. Then, she looks away and says in shamefaced amusement:

"I used to say a lot of idiotic, thoughtless stuff like that. Most of it was a lot worse, actually. I would assume that everyone was interested in my questions and stories. I would even have full-on conversations with inanimate objects. Luckily I grew out of _that_ part…"

By now, Yato looks intrigued, and she's happy she managed to get his mind off her ignorant question.

"You must have looked crazy," he says.

"Probably. The worst was when I would talk to the moon."

Hiyori stiffens, clamping her jaw tightly shut. That was something she hadn't intended to admit.

After a pause, Yato replies:

"The moon, huh?"

His voice doesn't betray anything: no amusement, and thankfully no judgment. She meets his eyes again—impossibly, celestially blue—and immediately forgets what she was about to say. The sky behind his head has melted from sunset colors into true nighttime, and—as though it's been summoned—the moon itself seems to materialize. From where they've stopped, and from where she's standing, it hangs above and to the right of Yato's head.

"You are an odd one, aren't you?" Yato asks, bringing her back from her world of speculations and half-memories.

"Most of that is your fault," she quickly retorts.

"I'm happy to take credit."

His right hand curves around her fingers, and as he leans toward her, she has a sudden, unbidden image of herself as the tide drawn into his pull.

"Hiyori…"

Her name sounds hazy and sweet from him, and as he holds her, closer and warmer than a coin in his hand, she can almost describe the unique kinship that she's felt between them—one that maybe has existed since she stood outside at midnight, speaking into the sky.

And even now, she still has to learn it the hard way: that girls who love the moon will never be happy. Not until the moon loves them back.


End file.
